


Turn And Face The Strange

by asexual-fandom-queen (writeordietrying)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon Lesbian Character, F/M, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Getting Together, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Pre-Poly, Queer Themes, References to David Bowie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 10:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19721713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeordietrying/pseuds/asexual-fandom-queen
Summary: “So, how did you know?” he asks again. “Unless you, like, don’t wanna talk about it, which is fine, it’s totally your decision. I was just wondering…”Steve trails off, hands turning over in circles as he contemplates the rest of his sentence.Robin rolls her eyes and takes pity on him. “How didyouknow you like girls?”“Okay,” Steve says with a decisive nod. “That’s fair. That’sfair.”Robin raises her eyebrows and shrugs with a tight-lipped smile, anit’s a simple as that.Apparently, for Steve, it’s not. “I guess what I’m actually asking,” he tries again, while Robin sets her pen down on the counter and tilts her head, bracing for whatever the latest dumb question Steve pulls out from under his mop of hair will shape up to be.“Is how you know you don’t like guys."Steve and Robin have a heart-to-heart, Jonathan comes back to town, and Nancy makes pie... or possibly cobbler.





	Turn And Face The Strange

**Author's Note:**

> As stated in an earlier Tumblr post on my blog, I am here today because I am a hungry girl for fresh stoncy content, and Stranger Things 3 did not feed me. 
> 
> Contains the very _mildest_ of season 3 spoilers, but if you wanna be extra careful, come back when you're caught up. 
> 
> Set in a world where after Starcourt, Steve, Nancy, and Jonathan reconnect (which is basically canon anyway, right? Right!)
> 
> Title is taken from David' Bowie's _[Changes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pl3vxEudif8)_
> 
> If you like this fic, please be sure to leave a comment and kudos down below. I super appreciate it!

“So, like, how did you know?”

The pen in Robin’s hand stills, and she looks over at Steve, her face a blank mask of boredom and indifference. It’s her go-to work face. Not the best for customer service, but Steve more than makes up for it between the cut of his jeans and his pretty boy smile. 

“Know?” she asks, shaking her head. Steve likes to bounce around when they talk. It’s not the first time he’s started a conversation with a total nonsequitur. 

“You know,” he continues with a casual shrug. “That you like girls.” 

The blood in Robin’s veins turns to ice in the space of a heartbeat. She looks quickly around to make sure they’re completely alone before raising a steadying hand to brace against her forehead. “Jesus, Steve.” 

Steve reads the panic in her expression and flinches. The way he rubbernecks is nearly comical, scoping out the Family Video for unwanted interlopers, even though, now that the initial panic has passed, Robin knows they’ve long been empty. 

“No one’s– it’s quarter to ten on a school night,” Steve says, finally coming to a standstill. “No one’s here. I’m not a total idiot.” 

Robin raises an eyebrow at him, and Steve does his level best to give her the stink eye, but he’s never been good at it like she is. 

“So, how did you know?” he asks again. “Unless you, like, don’t wanna talk about it, which is fine, it’s totally your decision. I was just wondering…” 

Steve trails off, hands turning over in circles as he contemplates the rest of his sentence. 

Robin rolls her eyes and takes pity on him. “How did  _ you _ know you like girls?” 

Steve’s hands still mid-circle. He squints his eyes and tilts his head, and his hair is still soft enough to sway with the motion, which has always impressed Robin, in a way. She’s never met a man with hair styled as meticulously as Steve’s that still looks soft to touch. 

“Okay,” Steve says with a decisive nod. “That’s fair. That’s  _ fair _ .” 

Robin raises her eyebrows and shrugs with a tight-lipped smile, an  _ it’s a simple as that _ . 

Apparently, for Steve, it’s not. “I guess what I’m actually asking,” he tries again, while Robin sets her pen down on the counter and tilts her head, bracing for whatever the latest dumb question Steve pulls out from under his mop of hair will shape up to be.

“Is how you know you don’t like guys.” 

An uncomfortable tightness pulls across Robin’s chest, and she feels the popcorn they both snuck earlier from the machine settle heavy in her stomach. 

“Steve,” Robin says gently, staring him down where he’s sat on the stool beside her, holding his gaze with soft eyes as his squint and furrow. “I know that we experienced something intense together, and that kind of bond can feel deep and special, but I don’t–”

“No, no, no,” Steve blurts out, cutting her gentle letdown off with a shaking head and waving arms. “That is not what this is about. I don’t like you.” 

Robin tilts her head. 

“Any– anymore,” Steve stammers. “I mean, yeah, did I briefly” – he holds up a finger so suddenly Robin jumps in her seat – “ _ briefly _ ? Okay, yeah, yes. But, that’s– that’s in the past, man. You’re, you know,  _ a lesbian _ .” 

He says the word conspiratorially low, despite the fact that the store has been empty for the past half-hour and, given that it’s due to close any minute, will in all likelihood remain that way. Robin huffs a laugh at his antics. 

“That’s the kind of hard no that even a notorious ladies’ man like myself knows to take seriously.” 

Robin raises an eyebrow at him. “I’m pretty sure all nos should be taken seriously, dingus.” 

Steve runs a hand through the font of his hair before crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, I know that, obviously. I’m just– I’m rambling. I’m nervous.” 

“We’re friends, Steve,” Robin assures him. “I’m not gonna take your head off for asking questions about being gay.” 

Turning her gaze from Steve to the rental leger open on the counter, Robin picks up her pen and doodles scratchy red scribbles in the margins. “It’s a refreshing change of pace, honestly, from having no one I can be honest with.” 

A hand lands heavy on her shoulder, and Robin looks up at Steve, off his stool and perched at her side. The warmth of his body, pressed close like they are, is a gentle comfort that her own readily absorbs. It’s been so long since she’s felt this, a touch that feels safe. Girls are dangerous for reading her true desires, and men are dangerous for wanting more than she can give. Steve is… Steve. A confidant. An ally. And that feels good. 

She doesn’t know how to tell him that now, but someday. 

“You can talk to me anytime, you know that, right?” Steve asks, his eyes big and bright and wet. 

Robin nods and pats his hand reassuringly, letting it linger for a long, drawn-out breath before the heat and the weight of him get to be too much, and her lungs are full of fire again. She shrugs her shoulder, pulling into herself, and Steve takes the hint, removing his hand and stepping away several paces to give her back her space. 

“I know I  _ don’t _ like boys because I know I  _ do _ like girls,” Robin says after a moment, and Steve jumps, like he wasn’t expecting her to actually answer. Steve pauses, processes, then nods his head, though he doesn’t look convinced, and Robin shrugs, like an apology. “I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“So, do you just, like, never think about what it would be like to be with a guy?” Steve wonders. 

Robin turns back to the leger and picks at her cuticles. She wants to do him the courtesy of answering, but doesn’t know how to put something so deeply personal into words. Steve has his mouth partway open – probably to tell her she doesn’t need to answer if she doesn’t feel comfortable – when she finally responds. 

“Not never,” Robin says, and Steve’s mouth shuts with a  _ clack _ . Her eyes dart back to her hands, but she can still feel his eyes on the back of her neck. “My whole life, growing up, you’re supposed to like boys. You’re supposed to want to get date boys and marry boys and” – she says the next part as barely a whisper – “ _ have sex with boys _ .” 

She glances up at Steve, and his eyes are wide as saucers. She turns away again but feels him settle beside her, his forearms braced against the counter, so she can comfortably keep her voice down. 

“So, yeah, of course, I thought about those things,” she continues, pen  _ scratch-scratch-scratching _ . “I still think about them, sometimes. I’m just…” 

She trails off, considering her words, and Steve gives her the space to find them. “Curious, I guess,” she resumes. “About what my life would be like if I did feel that way about guys. If I got desperate and lonely enough, if maybe I could find a way to be happy, living like that.” 

Steve bumps her with his hip, quick and gentle, and the small offering of physical comfort steadies her, settles the quavering in her voice and pushes back the wetness in her eyes. 

“But it doesn’t make me really, truly happy,” Robin says. “Not like when I think about doing those things with a girl. Even when the thought feels scary, or hopeless, it still feels good, too. It’s – it’s  _ exciting _ ,” she admits, a flush high on her cheeks. 

“Right,” Steve says, nodding along. Robin glances over at him surreptitiously, but he’s not looking at her, just staring blankly ahead in a thousand-yard stare. “Like, the idea of living your life the way you want and the way that feels right to you is worth the hard parts.” 

“Steve,” Robin says pointedly, and he finally breaks his trance, looking down at her and noticing her blush, only to develop one himself. 

“Oh,” Steve says dumbly. “You mean–” 

“I do mean,” she confirms, nodding awkwardly then looking away, lips pursed. 

In unison, they break out into a fit of laughter. Steve pivots on his heels and bows his back until the base of his skull rests against the counter. His arms clutch at his stomach, one leg flailing wildly while the other holds his weight to keep him from careening to the floor, and Robin presses her palms over her mouth so hard she nearly blocks off the airflow to her nose. 

“You’re such a dumbass,” Robin says though broken giggles, shoving at Steve’s side with her foot. Steve loses his balance and throws his arms out like windmills to right himself. It only makes Robin laugh harder, and Steve takes a moment to settle before he joins her in another raucous chorus. 

“Shit,” Steve says, glancing down at his watch, “five minutes to closing and we haven’t even started locking up. My bad.” 

Robin shrugs. “It’s fine. It’s not like we have anybody to chase out.” 

Steve nods, but doesn’t say anything in response, just stares blankly at the door with his head bowed, same as before, and a thought finally occurs to Robin.

“You have that thing tonight, right?” she probes. 

Steve shrugs. “I mean, if I’m late, I’m late. It’s not a big deal.” 

Robin narrows her eyes and examines his profile. He doesn’t sound convinced. That, paired with the fact that he’s never been difficult to read, and Robin sees right through him. Gears turn in her mind, and suddenly, the timing of their conversation feels a little less random. Still, she remembers what it felt like to be in his shoes, at the very beginning, when that lightbulb first went off, so she doesn’t say anything outright. 

Instead, she makes an offer. “You can beg off early, if you want.” 

He snaps his head left to look at her, surprise visible in his eyes. His gaze is seeking, brow furrowing deeper and deeper as the seconds tick by, so she shrugs, tries to play things off as casual. 

“Dude, you said it yourself. Nobody’s here. Who’s gonna tell Keith? Not me. It’ll take me ten extra minutes to do things myself, and it’s not like I have anywhere to be. So, you should just go.” 

In the space of a breath, Steve has his arms around her, the momentum nearly knocking her backward off her stool. The front two legs leave the ground, but he pulls her back a second later, and pressed chest to chest, she feels his heart thundering as rapidly as hers. 

“Thanks, Robin,” he whispers into her shoulder. “I’ll owe you.” 

Robin tries not to notice the moisture in his eyes when he pulls back. “You got me detained by evil Russians,” she chuckles. “We are well past  _ I’ll owe you _ .” 

“I saved you from evil Russians,” Steve argues, jabbing an accusatory finger at her while the smile creeps back into his eyes. 

Robin hums and purses her lips. “Actually,” she says. “I’m pretty sure a couple of eight-year-olds saved us from evil Russians. You tried your best though. Chin up. Maybe next time you can be the hero, how’s that?” 

“Oh,  _ ha-ha _ ,” Steve mocks, reaching under the counter to grab his bag before swinging it over his shoulder. “Screw you very much. I’d like to see where you – where this whole town – would be without little ‘ole Steve Harrington.” 

Robin lurches back as Steve vaults over the counter, nearly knocking the leger to the ground, short of Robin reaching out to catch it. On his way past the display, he grabs two bags of pre-popped popcorn and bundles them under his arm. 

“Hey,” Robin protests. 

Steve turns to face her with a cocky smile as he walks recklessly backward, heel to heel, toward the door. “Who’s gonna tell Keith? Not me.” 

Robin shakes her head, but she smiles back at Steve and waves him off as he slams the weight of his back into the bar along the glass door, the barest hint of a wince pulling at his eyes and the corners of his mouth. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Robin calls after him. 

The last thing Robin sees of Steve before he disappears through the door is the bemused face he pulls. “You were detained by evil Russians. What kinda bullshit advice is that?” 

* * *

Steve’s palms are sweaty when he steps onto the stoop. He wipes them on the thighs of his jeans and bounces on the balls of his feet, psyching himself up, before leaning forward and ringing the doorbell. He fidgets while he waits, running his fingers through the front of his hair, hoping to reinstill some of the volume it's lost over the course of the day. He drops them quickly at the first sound of footsteps behind the heavy, wooden door. He puts on his most charming smile as the knob rattles, and tries not to think too much about who he’s most looking forward to seeing on the other side. 

“Steve,” Nancy says softly, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’re just on time. Come in.” 

“Nance,” Steve greets, nodding as he follows her inside. He shuts the door to the Wheeler house and is met instantly with the smell of sweet, spiced fruit. A pie, or maybe a cobbler, if Steve had to guess. There’s a pleasant flush spread across Nancy’s cheeks, and a bottle of wine with three glasses, two full, on the end table in the living room. 

“Busy day?” Nancy asks, turning to glance at Steve over her shoulder. 

Steve chuckles. “I should be asking you that,” he says. “I saw your name on the byline this morning.” 

Nancy’s flush creeps down her neck, and Steve’s heart flutters in his chest. He was done with Nancy Wheeler. He thought he was done. But like most things in Hawkins, done doesn’t stay done long. After Starcourt. After the Byers left town. It was only a matter of time before Nancy Wheeler crashed headlong into his heart again. 

“It was hardly the front page. They had me buried in  _ Births & Weddings _ , you know, because that’s the nice, ladylike place for me to be,” she sneers. 

Steve chuckles softly. Nancy looks back at him, stopping dead, and Steve tries to keep the most obvious of the sparkling out of his eyes. “It looked good there, Nance.” 

“Did you actually read the article, though, is the question.” 

Steve’s dumbstruck smile is still glued to his face and grows by the second as he turns to face the source of the snide remark. Jonathan leans against the archway to the kitchen, flowery fingermarks painted across the thighs of his jeans that are too small and dainty to be his, a whimsical smirk fixed to his face, screwing it up on one side. 

“Byers,” Steve says, syrupy and slow as, despite himself, his smile continues to grow. Steve crosses the room in four long strides, arms spreading as he goes. “It’s good to have you back, man.” 

Steve hugs Jonathan with his whole body, arms snaked around his midsection and his shoulder, pressed together from knees to chest. Jonathan, after a moment’s pause and a soft, surprised  _ huff _ , hugs him back the same way, his fingers grabbing rhythmically against Steve’s skin. Steve feels the way Jonathan’s nose presses into the muscles in the dip where his shoulder gives way to his neck, the breath he exhales fluttering Steve’s hair. 

It’s different, having Jonathan back after months of rushed, stolen phone calls and the odd letter sent back and forth. Steve forgot what it was like to feel the weight of him. Smell the scent of him. 

He holds on for as long as he thinks he can get away with before pulling back with an awkward chuckle, nodding nervously like a bobblehead. 

“What took you so long, anyway?” Steve asks. “A Hawkins Thanksgiving not good enough for you?” 

Jonathan shrugs with one shoulder, bowing his head. Nancy slides up beside him, wrapping her small, gentle arms around his waist and resting her head against his chest like the sheer force of her will alone can hold him all in one piece after everything he – all of them, really – has gone through. 

“I wasn’t ready yet,” Jonathan whispers. 

Steve nods. “Well,” he says, reaching out and clasping Jonathan on the arm, opposite of where Nancy’s nestled in. “I’m glad you’re ready now.” 

“I’ve gotta head back next week,” Jonathan says, and Steve’s heart squeezes traitorously in his chest. He sees the same hurt reflected in Nancy’s eyes, hard as she tries to hide it. “Just to pick up El and Will. They wanna come down for Christmas, but Mom’s still new in her job, so she’s not gonna have much time off over the holidays. My courses wrapped up earlier than their school, but I offered to go back and take them. I think they’re as eager to see everyone as I am.” 

Some of the tension lets out of Steve’s chest, but he tries not to look so obviously relieved. “Then you’re back until after the New Year?” he asks. 

Jonathan nods. “That’s the plan, anyway. I’ll have to see how Will and El take being back. It might be a lot for them. But they’re pretty insistent they’ll be okay.” 

“Speaking of courses,” Nancy wheedles. “How are those going?” 

It’s Jonathan’s turn to flush this time. He shrugs awkwardly out of her grip and makes a beeline for the wine glasses on the coffee table. “Come on, Nance. I already said.” 

“For Steve’s benefit,” Nancy reminds him, and Jonathan sighs. He raises the wine to his lips and takes a deep, hearty swig. The corners of his mouth stain dark purple, and Steve bites back the impulse to wipe it away. He doesn’t have long to wrestle with his own desires before Nancy’s at Jonathan’s side, sitting on the armrest next to the seat he’s taken at the sofa and wiping the smudge away herself with the pad of her thumb. 

Steve’s chest lurches watching them together, but he forces a neutral expression and sits on the armchair across from them. Reaching forward, Steve uncorks the bottle of wine and pours a healthy portion into the empty glass left out for him.

“Come on, man,” Steve prompts. “Tell me about college life. You’re the only one between who’s gone. There’s gotta be something juicy.” 

Jonathan shrugs. “I go to class, go to work, go home,” he says. “Not to rain on your parade, but I’m not exactly the wild college party type.” 

“And for that, you have let me down, my friend,” Steve teases. 

That prompts a chorus of giggles from Nancy, and even a small chuckle from Jonathan. Nancy’s wine sloshes in her glass as she slides from the armrest into Jonathan’s lap. His arm wraps reflexively around her waist, hugging her tight against him, and Steve breathes through the pang in his chest to enjoy the sight of them together. 

It’s still strange to sit across from them, his ex-girlfriend and the man with whom he once came to blows over her, but Steve knows, deep down, that there was only ever one way this could end, and it’s exactly like this. The three of them, they went through something, but Nancy and Jonathan even more so. They experienced something intense together, and that kind of bond is deep and special. Steve’s just glad he gets to sit here, with them, gets to be a part of their bubble. Even if that feeling of being on the outside looking in sucks. He still gets to look. 

“Actually, there is one thing,” Jonathan says suddenly, shifting enough to jostle Nancy in his lap. Nancy looks back at him over her shoulder with wide, concerned eyes, like she’s privy to a part of the conversation Steve isn’t, and why wouldn’t she be? Steve reminds himself of that as his heart misses a beat. 

_ Why wouldn’t she be? _

“I joined this campus organization,” Jonathan hedges, recapturing Steve’s full attention. “Well, it’s not an official organization. More of a grassroots student movement.” 

“Oh, that’s cool, man,” Steve says, nodding his approval. “What is it, like some sort of photography thing?” 

“No, it’s,” Jonathan begins, then suddenly shakes his head like he’s thought better of it. “You know what, it’s not actually all that exciting. Forget I said anything.” 

“No,” Steve protests, shaking his head and lurching forward in his seat, nearly spilling the wine in his glass all over Mrs. Wheeler’s carpet. “Hey, if it’s something you find interesting I’m sure I’ll find it interesting, too. Or even if it’s boring, I’ll pretend it’s fascinating, okay? Just, come on, tell me. You can’t just leave a guy hanging like that, Byers.” 

Jonathan shifts in his seat. He steals a furtive glance from under his eyelashes up at Steve, then darts his gaze back to the wine in his glass, swirling it nervously. 

“What?” Steve prompts. “Did you join, like, a serial killer club?”

When Jonathan doesn’t immediately refute him, Steve doubles down. “Because, you know what, after everything we’ve been through, I’d probably be okay with some light serial killing. Trauma, man. It’s, uh– it can mess a person up. But if you need someone to help you hide the bodies, hey, all you gotta do is ask.” 

Steve shifts awkwardly in his seat. Jonathan and Nancy are looking at him with twin pairs of wide, uncertain eyes, and Steve worries that maybe he’s come on too strong to convincingly play the role of a casual friend, but he relaxes again when Jonathan finally speaks. 

“I just don’t want things between us to…” 

He trails off, unsure, and looks to Nancy for help. Nancy shrugs, like she’s at as much of a loss for words as he is, so Steve tries filling the blank in himself. 

“Change?” he suggests. 

Jonathan swallows. Meets Steve’s gaze. “For the worse.” 

Despite himself, Steve reaches across the coffee table and rests the tips of his fingers against Jonathan’s knee, on the side where Nancy’s not perched. Jonathan tenses for a beat, but soon relaxes, eyes sliding shut, making no move to shake off Steve’s hand. Nancy pets the hair at the base of Jonathan’s skull, fingers trailing in soothing strokes down his neck. Steve sees the perspiration on Jonathan’s brow, watches his tongue flick out to wet dry, trembling lips.

“Good thing that’s not possible, then,” Steve whispers. The reassurance coaxes Jonathan’s eyes up from his lap until he’s meeting Steve’s dead on. Steve couldn’t look away if he tried. 

“You know David Bowie?” Jonathan asks. 

It’s so apropos of nothing that it takes Steve aback for a second. “The  _ Ground Control to Major Tom _ guy?” 

Jonathan and Nancy chuckle at that, breaking some of the tension. Steve feels like he can breathe a bit easier. 

“What other David Bowie would I be talking about?” Jonathan asks. 

Steve shrugs. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But it was out of the blue enough that I thought I should clarify.” 

“Well, yeah, that David Bowie,” Jonathan confirms, and Steve nods, though his brow is still furrowed in a way that betrays he’s not entirely following. 

“I’m like him,” Jonathan says, so quiet it’s barely a whisper. 

“What?” Steve asks. “Like a European rock glam legend or–” 

Jonathan cuts him off. “I’m bisexual.” 

Steve is quiet for a moment. Taken aback. His fingers twitch on Jonathan’s knee, but he’s careful not to retract them. They’re all three deathly still, waiting for Steve to make the first move. When he finally does, it’s not what any of them expect, Steve least of all.

“David Bowie is bisexual? Why didn’t I know that?”

“Well, I mean, it depends on the interview,” Nancy provides. “He’s kinda taken it back, not that I blame someone at his fame level.” 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Steve agrees, nodding along. 

“ _ Okay, that is not what matters here! _ ” 

The suddenness of Jonathan’s raised voice paired with the way he slides out from under Nancy and Steve’s hold alike, putting space between them, tugs at Steve’s heartstrings. Slowly, he rises to his feet and takes a measured step forward. Nancy is off like a shot hot on Steve’s heels, springing to her feet and rushing forward to meet them in the middle, like she’ll put herself physically between Steve and Jonathan if she has too. It makes Steve’s chest swell with pride, but is also entirely unnecessary. 

“I mean, it kinda is, though,” Steve says gently, and Jonathan snaps his head up, looking at Steve like he’s got three heads. Still, Steve presses on. “Otherwise, the big, important thing would be that you are –  _ you know _ – too. And that– it doesn’t matter to me, Jonathan. Okay? It really doesn’t.” 

Jonathan’s eyes are still hard. Unsure. “And you know what bisexual means, right?” 

“Seriously?” Steve sighs. “Yes, I know what it means. That you like girls and, uh, also guys. And it’s fine. That you are that way, I mean.” 

Steve knows he’s blowing it, just from the way Jonathan is curling in on himself. From the way Nancy is moving slowly forward, coming to stand at Jonathan’s side with a hand on his arm. It was easier with Robin. Because she was a woman? Or maybe because the stakes hadn’t felt so astronomically high. 

Also, he’d been heavily drugged at the time. 

Maybe he should have more wine. 

“I’m,” Steve blurts out, starting strong, but faltering quickly into an uncertain murmur. “I’m that way, too. Like Bowie, depending on the interview.” 

Jonathan and Nancy look up at him with round, surprised eyes, and Steve sighs. “So, that’s… out there now.” 

“Oh,” Jonathan whispers. His spine is ramrod straight. With Steve’s own bowed uncertainty, they’re nearly at eye level, and it stirs something within him, a desire to stand at full height, to meet Jonathan on equal footing, so when they’re looking into each other’s eyes, they’re really looking at each other, raw and open and exactly as they are. 

“Steve,” Nancy says softly, drawing Steve’s attention. She’s got one hand outstretched, palm facing upward, and Steve takes it, letting her pull him in close until they’re all breathing the same air. 

“I–” Nancy starts, then falters. Her forehead is pinched, and Steve wants so viscerally to reach out and smooth the crease with the pad of his thumb that he does. Nancy’s eyes soften, and as Steve retracts his hand, she grabs hold of it with her own and presses it to the delicate, yielding skin of her cheek. She’s warm under his touch. Beside them, Jonathan stands still, watching. Seeing. 

“You could have told me before,” Nancy whispers. 

Steve shrugs. The pad of his thumb strokes along the highest point of her cheekbone, where the reddest of her blush sits proudly. “I couldn’t even tell myself, to be honest,” he admits. “I didn’t want things to change.”

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Steve looks over at Jonathan with the most open expression he knows how to give and hopes it’s enough where his words are still caught in his throat. 

“For the worse,” Steve adds, and it’s like the final piece of a puzzle slotting into place. Jonathan’s hand trails up the side of his thigh to rest on his hip, the heat of it searing through Steve’s printed button-down. Jonathan steps closer in the same breath that Nancy steps closer, and Steve’s hand slides around the back of her head, fingers twining through her soft, curly hair. 

Steve looks from Jonathan to Nancy then back again. Their expressions are both earnest, and open, and yet it feels so impossible for Steve to gauge what they’re trying to say. It doesn’t look like anything he’s been taught to understand, a series of desires the can recognize independently, but that feel so foreign put together. 

Jonathan’s hand slides around to the small of Steve’s back, and suddenly he’s even closer, almost nose to nose. Steve’s heart stutters in his chest and, without making the conscious decision to do so, his eyes flutter shut. Nancy turns her head in his hand and places a soft, wet kiss to the pulse point at his wrist just as Jonathan’s nose bumps against his own and a fire lights deep in Steve’s belly. 

Like a piercing scream in the dead of night, the shrill ringing of the kitchen timer startles Steve, Nancy, and Jonathan from their embrace. Steve springs back he’s been burnt while Nancy chuckles nervously and Jonathan bows his head. 

“That’s–” Nancy stammers, turning in circles, then gesturing toward the kitchen with her thumbs hooked over her shoulder. “In the oven.” 

“Cool,” Steve says, breathing quick through his nose to settle the trembling in his belly. “That’s great. I like–” except that, abruptly, Steve remembers he doesn’t know what’s soon to be on the table. “What is it? Pie, or cobbler, or..” 

He trails off, looking to Nancy expectantly, eyes darting, uncertain, between her and Jonathan, the latter of whom still has his head hung low, as if she might either tell them what’s in the oven, or ask them to promptly get out of her house and never speak to her again. 

“It’s–” Nancy starts, then stops just as abruptly. She sighs heavy and lets her shoulders slump, like all the tension’s washed out of her at once. It’s enough to catch Jonathan’s attention, because finally, he looks up, first at Nancy, then at Steve, then Nancy again. 

“Honestly, Steve,” Nancy says, and Steve feels the weight of it press against his chest. “It’s whatever you want it to be.” 

She doesn’t wait for a response before turning on her heels and disappearing into the kitchen. Steve turns to Jonathan instead. The air feels thick, not quite uncomfortable, but not quite with promise. More undecided. 

“When are Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler coming back?” Steve asks. 

Jonathan glances up at him. Holds his gaze. “They’re not,” Jonathan replied. “Mrs. Wheeler has family out of state so they’re gone to visit. Holly went with them. Mike’s at Dustin’s.” 

“So the house is empty?” 

“For the next few days, yeah,” Jonathan confirms with a nod. 

Steve nods too. 

The timer stops. 

Decisively, Steve steps forward. Jonathan looks up at him, eyes bright and wide, and Steve can’t tell if he’s expectant or nervous, but he doesn’t flinch when Steve reaches out to hold his hand, threading their fingers neatly together. He’s never held another man’s hand before, and it feels different. Jonathan’s fingers are longer and wider and more calloused. It’s weightier. But it feels every bit as good as he remembers the feeling of Nancy’s hand in his own. 

“We should go have some dessert, then, yeah?” Steve proposes. He squeezes Jonathan’s hand, and, with a timid smile, Jonathan squeezes back. Steve leads them to the kitchen, fingers still interlaced. 

“So, are you gonna blindfold me and make me guess, or will you just tell me what’s to eat already?” Steve teases brightly as he and Jonathan step into the Wheeler’s warm, aromatic kitchen. 

Nancy spins on the points of her toes, three dessert plates held firmly in one hand, the other clutching the open cupboard door for balance. She sees their hands clasped tight together, and Steve’s breath catches in his throat as her eyes light up. 

“I mean,” Nancy chuckles, and it’s so full of joy and relief, Steve could almost join her. “If you’re gonna insist.” 

She sets the plates down on the counter by the stove where a foil-covered dessert tray cooling and strides forward like she’s walking on air. She bounces on her tiptoes and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to Jonathan’s lips, she turns to Steve and does the same. 

Kissing Nancy is like riding a bike. It’s so easy to slot their lips together and taste the vanilla in her lip balm and feel the smoothness of her skin. When she pulls away, she goes back to the stove to busy herself with desert, and Steve and Jonathan turn to face each other at once. 

Steve doesn’t say anything. It doesn’t feel like the time. He looks Jonathan in the eyes and raises his eyebrows until he receives a small, certain nod in return. Steve has never kissed another man, either, but it feels so natural to cradle Jonathan’s jaw, to feel the stubble under his fingers, the rasp of it against his thumb as he strokes his skin gently. It’s as easy as breathing to press their mouths together, to taste dark, rich wine and feel chapped lips against his own as Jonathan kisses him back, leans into him and gasps, soft and gentle. 

When they finally part, for a moment, Steve doesn’t remember how to look away. He stares at Jonathan, who seems to be stuck in the same trance, and breaths with him, together, in synch. 

“It’s gonna get cold,” Nancy warns, and the sound of her voice paired with the clattering of dishes finally brings Steve back to reality. He smiles at Jonathan and chuckles softly, squeezes his hand one last time, then breaks off to join Nancy at the stove where she’s plating up servings. He rests a hand on the small of her back and she looks up at him over her shoulder with a thousand-watt smile. 

“Okay?” she asks. 

Steve looks past her to the plates she’s served and smiles back just as bright. “Just what I was hoping for,” he replies. 

Grabbing a plate for himself and one for Jonathan, he follows them back to the living room where the warmth of the couch and three glasses of wine are waiting. Nancy curls up in the middle, tucking her toes under the thighs, and Steve stretches his arm along the back of the couch so his fingers rest at the base of Jonathan’s neck. 

The moment feels unsustainable, because of the distance, because Steve and Jonathan are both men, because adding to Nancy to the mix only makes things more unconventional, but Steve can’t feel the pit of dread in his stomach past the flutter of butterflies. It feels scary but it’s still good. The three of them here, like this, together. 

It’s good. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr.](https://asexual-fandom-queen.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (and don't forget to kudos and comment)


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